


Selvedge

by lazarov



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur is having a hard time adjusting to the idea of being an employee, Arthur learns to love a good suit, Dom and Arthur are both pigheaded but smart enough to be aware of it, Dom loves a good suit, Ex-Military!Arthur, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: Arthur signs on to be Dom's accomplice — er, associate. Dom insists on getting him a signing bonus.Or: Arthur learns to love the cut of a goddamn beautiful suit.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: InceptGen





	Selvedge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrikingLightning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikingLightning/gifts).



* * *

They’re scheduled to meet at Bemelmans Bar at 7:00 pm. 

From approximately 5:21 until 6:53, Arthur flip-flops between nervously pacing a line across the carpeted floor and staring critically at himself in the full-length mirror in his too-nice room in the too-nice hotel that Mr. Cobb had insisted on booking for him, after he had already footed the bill for Arthur’s direct, business-class ticket from LA. 

Arthur stops in front of the mirror again and yanks at the sleeves of his shirt. Fiddles with his collar and mutters to himself: _No tie? Tie? No tie? Fuck._

 _No tie,_ Arthur decides, looking his reflection in the eyes and frowning. 

* * *

Arthur grew up solidly lower-middle-class in bullshit Inland Empire California, the youngest child of a car mechanic and a kindergarten teacher who both spent their entire lives uselessly trying to claw their way up the rickety, splinter-filled ladder of American social class. 

After crushing the SAT and realizing he couldn’t give a shit about becoming a lawyer or a doctor or an architect, Arthur did what you do in the United States of fucking America when you’re young and aimless and think you’re smarter than everyone else — he joined the military. 

In Arthur’s case, at least, he was right about that last bit. 

He spent a couple of years as a private, getting real good at taking useless, borderline-abusive orders and executing them to perfection, before quickly being recruited into program development in PSYOPs and from there, helping build the military’s use of PASIV from the ground up, before shifting to working on perfecting it — or, more accurately, showing how fucking effective it could be in uniquely skilled hands (Arthur’s hands) by personally leading a team to influence a few would've-been-legitimate elections in Central America. He wasn’t particularly proud of that part, but. The point is —

 _The point is_ , Arthur is fucking incredible at dreamwork. A goddamn prodigy. He’s not about to allow himself to feel inferior during a business meeting in an over-expensive bar frequented by people with more old money than common sense just because the only real suit he owns is from the fucking Men’s Wearhouse.

* * *

“I need a point man. I set the game plan, you figure out the details to make sure it happens. The Kevin Marshall to my Spielberg,” says Dom — _Call me Dom, none of that Mr. Cobb shit if we're going to work together,_ was maybe the second thing out of his mouth, after hello.

Now he's dead-serious as he talks, hunched over their untouched twenty-three-dollar-an-ounce whiskies, and an equally-untouched plate of crab cakes that Dom had insisted on ordering.

“I’ve heard your attention to detail is unparalleled.” The room is warmly lit, and buzzing with people and their bright and rapid-fire conversations. A jazz band plays in the corner and the sound of the trumpets ricochets sharply through the mural-laden room, loud enough that Dom doesn’t seem concerned that anyone might overhear. Still, he adds in a quieter murmur, so low that Arthur barely catches it, “And I could help with those government tails you’ve been trying to shirk since you left the service.” Arthur glances around the room, but Dom shakes his head: “Don't worry, they're not here tonight. What do you say, Arthur?” It’s brass tacks time, and Dom holds out his hand across the table: “Do you want to join a team of renegades?”

And so, shortly before 10:00 pm, Arthur agrees to be Dom’s new — _New what? Associate? Partner?_ Probably more like _accomplice_ , if Arthur is being honest with himself.

* * *

The next morning, Dom calls Arthur on the shiny little black hotel room phone while he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth. 

“I’m picking you up at one,” he says, as soon as Arthur answers. There’s no question in the way he says it — it’s pure statement. “Be ready, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“I’m busy at one.” He says it lightly, with a well-measured twinge of performative disappointment, and tries not to let the indignance that spurs in his guts seep into his voice. 

Arthur isn’t busy at one. In fact, he has no plans except to wander around the city on his own, maybe grab a slice of pizza, and even though he’s intrigued about what Dom could possibly need him for already, he’s not about to let Dom get an early edge on establishing any kind of bullshit relationship between them where Dom says, _Jump_ , and Arthur asks, _Off what bridge?_

Anyway, it’s been a long time since Arthur was last in New York and, speaking of bridges, he wanted to spend the day studying: How far away the other shore looks when standing at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge and gazing east across it; how the never ending vibration of the car and pedestrian traffic feels when he places his hands flat on the cold steel of the handrails; the smell and feel of the breeze over the river, marked with tanker oil and American industry. If Dom wants him to be his new point man — or whatever phrase Dom had used — he needs to let Arthur _study_.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Dom, kindly, “and clear your schedule. I’ve got a surprise for you — call it a signing bonus.”

* * *

Dom pulls up in front of an imposing, grey cast-iron faced building in SoHo, and Arthur glowers at it over the window of Dom’s jet black 1966 230SL Mercedes.

 _This isn’t my usual car_ , Dom’d explained semi-embarrassedly as Arthur followed him out of the hotel lobby and out to the street, _Mal — that’s my wife, you’ll love her — well, she thinks it’s embarrassing, but it only really gets pulled out for special occasions, or when a certain level of ostentatiousness is required to impress a, uh, discerning client_. Arthur had asked if discerning was code for snobby, and Dom had just grinned at him. _Get in_. 

“Where are we?” asks Arthur, getting out of the car and scratching his head. For a moment, he worries that he’s walking into some sick kind of hazing ceremony to initiate him into the team, at best ( _you were in the military too long,_ he reminds himself, _not everyone welcomes the new guy with ritual abuse_ ), or a trap that will lead to a fun little adventure at the end of which he dies of old age in a federal prison, at worst.

Arthur glances around: The building doesn’t have any obvious signs or markings out front, although it’s clear that it’s occupied.

On the second floor, heavy velvet drapes frame what might be mannequins in the window.

“My suit guy,” Dom says, pointing upstairs.

“Your _what_ ,” says Arthur, letting Dom usher him into the building’s foyer.

* * *

As it turns out, Dom’s suit guy is a tiny Italian man named Tony, who Arthur is pretty sure must be nearly eighty. 

After climbing an industrial staircase, Dom and Arthur emerge into a massive second-floor room that clearly used to be the home of some kind of factory, a hundred and fifty years ago, alternately wrapped in exposed brick expansive walls painted dark navy. 

Set in a near-unbroken line around the perimeter of the room are racks upon racks of men’s suits and shirts, interspersed with walnut display cases holding ties, cravats, pocket squares and other accoutrements. The whole space radiates _this shit is expensive_ , right down to the leather-scented air and the utter lack of price tags on anything.

Actually, as Arthur glances at Dom (who is dressed in that tasteful sort of expensive way that looks impossibly simple and easy, unless you’re in the know and can ID the small-scale bespoke details on sight), and at Tony (who just looks expensive-expensive, wearing what Arthur can only describe as a suit that screams _I own a nightclub in Monte Carlo_ ) then around the room again, he realizes everything and everyone is decked out like they consider a summer on the French Reviera to be a low-key vacation proposition. 

Arthur looks down at his Levi jeans and his completely unassuming Ted Baker derbys. He thinks he looks fine — he’s not wealthy, didn’t grow up with wealth, and couldn’t give a shit about being perceived as wealthy. 

Arthur wonders if this is a test, and hangs back as Dom steps into the room like he’s returning from a tour in Kabul.

“Dom,” Tony says warmly, his arms held out wide. Dom walks up to him and lets him grip him tightly by the upper arms, fingers glittering with gaudy, gemstone-laden gold rings, and leans down to let him kiss both cheeks. “How’s Mal?”

“Still putting up with me.”

“And the kids?”

“Still keeping us busy. How’s Maria?”

“Eh,” Tony waggles one hand from side to side and makes a face. “She’s got a touch of the gout right now, but she’s doing fine.” He waves his hand again and turns his attention to Arthur, who until this point has been standing ten feet behind Dom, inspecting a gorgeous Monstera plant near the window. “What have you brought me?”

“This is Arthur—” Dom held out one hand to invite Arthur to join them, as Tony exclaimed, “Come, come!” Arthur did. Taking a faux-serious tone, Dom added, “You’re going to treat him nice today.”

“Pah!” exclaimed Tony, chuckling. “You know I always do. What are we doing today?” He sized Arthur up, pinching at the seams of Arthur’s (perfectly fine, thank you) wool peacoat. “We’re doing one suit? Or a whole set?”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest. “That’s not—”

“Whole set,” says Dom resolutely, cutting Arthur off before he can even start.

Tony winks at Arthur. “Lucky man.”

* * *

It’s not until Arthur is pinned into the third suit that he falls utterly, pathetically, in love. “Oh,” he murmurs, then feels embarrassed for having basically _groaned in pleasure_ out loud, elicited just from the way the unlined cloth feels against his legs, and the sharp way the fabric seems to curve and meld against his body but also hold its shape in clean, perfect lines. “This is nice,” he says.

This one is dark navy, constructed out of a wool-cashmere blend that feels too soft, and too easy — like stepping into a warm bath with a whisky on the rocks at the end of a long, brutal day. The way Tony pins it into place, with the cuffs brought up, and the rise made just shy of snug, everything is slightly cropped and modern — on Arthur’s 5’10” frame, it all feels perfectly proportioned. 

For the first time, Arthur really _sees_ himself in a suit, without feeling like he’s dressed up in his dad’s oversized 80s double-breasted suit that he only pulls out for weddings and funerals, the one that he thinks makes him look like Richard Gere in _Pretty Woman_ , but that actually — well, actually, it does make him look like Richard Gere in _Pretty Woman_.

That’s not a compliment.

The longer Arthur stares at himself in the mirror, his eyes roving over the jacket’s tortoiseshell buttons, the understated notch in the collar, and the sharp lines of the breast pocket, his sense of self feels like it fades away — the same way that words warp and lose all meaning if you just keep on repeating them out loud, over and over.

Maybe, he thinks, this is how he transitions out of before (a weapon of the government, doing morally reprehensible shit for only dubiously clean money) and into this new unknown he’s stepping into with Dom (which he thinks may be slightly less reprehensible, although with way dirtier money). 

Maybe this is his reinvention.

Maybe this is his rebirth. Maybe this is the first hint that he’s going to finally be able to pay off his parents’ home, and help his sister buy a new minivan to shuttle his nieces and nephews around in.

“This is Thom Browne,” says Tony, like he’s jovially introducing Arthur to an acquaintance at a party and expects them to have lots of conversational topics in common. “Bit modern for my tastes but what do I know, look at me — I’m old as dirt.” Tony laughs to himself, and then eases himself gently — _Mannagia, a vicchiaia è carogna! —_ onto his knees, so that he can properly measure the hem of Arthur’s pants.

  
  


* * *

Tony leaves them alone for a while, as he pops into the back room to make a quick phone call to his granddaughter (“My great-grandchild is being born next week — can you _believe_?”).

Standing in front of the three-way mirror, on a little riser that makes Arthur feel like a Miss America contestant, he takes in the lines of the suit, expertly pinned into place by Tony’s incomprehensibly-sure hands. Arthur resists the urge to turn from side to side and get the full effect, because that would be vain, and he is still trying to shake off the embarrassment (and maybe shame) that he feels at the idea of Dom buying him clothes that cost more than his parents’ mortgage payments. Or, he assumes they do — no price tags.

“What do you think?” asks Dom, looking pleased with himself.

“If you thought I dressed like a normie, you should’ve said,” said Arthur, only half-defensively. Still, he senses himself standing taller in the mirror: The suit gives him a strange sort of lift, like there are strings attached to his collarbones, pulling him toward the ceiling. Arthur already considers himself confident — bullheadedly confident, even — but this beautiful suit seems to put that into overdrive. He feels like he could kick fifty asses in a bar fight, then sip a martini, as ice-cold as if he’d just stepped out of a walk-in freezer.

“Oh, come on. This has nothing to do with the way you dress. Dress however you want when we’re not on a job. That’s not my business and frankly I don’t give a shit.” 

Dom steps around the riser to get a better look at the way the suit’s sharp-cut shoulders lay against Arthur’s own, the way Tony has brought in the sides of the jacket so that it skims Arthur’s ribcage like a second, wool-blend skin. Then he catches Arthur’s gaze in the mirror: “This is about having a suit of armour. You walk into a room wearing _this_ , and people trust every word you say. A suit like this is the first line of defence against anyone trying to fuck with you.”

“It’s amazing,” says Arthur, honestly. “Thank you.”

Dom claps a hand on his shoulder, and catches his eye in the mirror. “We’re a team. First step is looking the part.”

* * *

The enormous black box is hand-delivered to Arthur’s hotel room a few days later, by a sheepish little New York Italian teenager who tells him that _grandpa says hi and to call him if he needs anything_.

Arthur carries the box over to his perfectly-made hotel room bed — he hasn’t had housekeeping in all week, he just likes a well-made bed — and sets it down cautiously, like it’s filled with explosives. 

Arthur forces himself watch TV — flipping between a slow episode of _60 Minutes_ and a slower Dodgers game — making it nearly a whole hour before he mutters, “Fuck it,” and pushes himself off the hotel bed’s (annoyingly luxurious) pillows to go open the box. He pulls off the lid, and finds the three suits nestled perfectly inside: Identical, perfect cuts in navy, black, and grey. 

Underneath those are five dress shirts — each an understated variation of grey, pinstripe, and white. It’s like digging through Mary Poppins’ handbag: The more Arthur looks, the more he finds. Individually wrapped and tucked against the right side of the box are three silk ties, and a small stack of pocket squares, and Arthur nearly misses the tiny black bag at the bottom of the box. When he picks it up, something tinkles inside, and he pours its contents into his palm to find a pair of small, perfectly simple golden cufflinks.

Once Arthur pulls everything out and lays it reverently on the bedspread, he’s surprised to find that there’s a vest, too, to go with the black jacket. _Dom wants me looking downright dapper, huh,_ he thinks, amused, but is secretly pleased at this discovery. 

He can’t help himself, and immediately puts on the black set so he can proudly stare at himself in the hotel room mirror and get a proper before/after.

* * *

Four years later, they’re on a job in Monaco and a little bit drunk, and Arthur finally asks — “How much did those suits cost, seriously? The ones you got me as a ‘signing bonus’?”

Dom does the math for a second, which does not bode well for Arthur not vomiting on his shoes from sheer embarrassment — not just because, by now, he’s embraced suits as a key part of his personal identity — or else picking a good-natured fight with Dom in the middle of this hotel bar ( _always with the hotel bars_ — Dom was very predictable, very New York, in his love for them). 

“Twenty-two thousand,” he says, finally, and Arthur nearly loses it at him, before he adds slyly, “That’s just the suits, of course. And before tax and tailoring.”

“You're unbelievable,” says Arthur, over the rim of his Boulevardier. As he takes a sip, Dom adds, “All in, it was about forty grand,” and Arthur chokes on his drink, nearly sucking the orange twist into his windpipe. Dom winks at him, pleased with himself: “Worth every dime.”

* * *


End file.
